


cold, with three c's

by carefulren



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And spooning, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Season 1 Softness, Sickfic, Sniffles, Whump, Whumpfic, and Tim being a good bro, because Season 2 is currently hurting my heart, so I choose to ignore it lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25539403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Tim catches a cold and gives it to Jon. Elias is annoyed and sends Martin to nurse his staff back to health.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	cold, with three c's

Tim shuffles into the building, sniffling loudly, hand curled around the crumpled tissue shoved far into his coat pocket.

He should have heeded the whispered warnings that he should “run” for his life when he slipped into the police station a few days ago to flirt his way into additional information regarding a case Jon’s covering. However, he priortized his work and ignored the numerous sick officers coughing and sneezing, claiming he’s fortunate to have an immune system of steel and hasn’t been sick in years.

If regret looks like flushed cheeks, tossled hair, and a red-rimmed nose, well, then, he’s the spitting image. He feels relatively awful- the kind of awful that’s not quite awful enough to stay home curled up in a blanket cocoon on his couch, which, he thinks, sucks quite a bit because that’s very much what he’d rather be doing.

He stops before his desk when the tell-tale tickle hits his nose, and he jerks his face into the crook of his arm to sneeze sharply, chasing it with a deep, drawn out groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” 

There’s disgust dripping from Sasha’s tone, and if Tim’s head were a little clearer, he would take a jab at the underlining color of concern, but, his head somehow hurts worse than it did when he walked into the building two minutes ago. Forgoing sass, he sinks into his chair with another louder, longer groan, wincing as it pulls at his rough throat.

“I’m dying.” 

Sasha takes a step backwards until her back hits a wall. She braces her hands against the wall behind her, fingers tapping anxiously. “Doubtful; however, you look like you could die, and that means I cannot work in the same vicinity as you because I value my health.”

“I value my health!” Tim argues, doubling over into a coughing fit. He clumsily presses his fist to his mouth, breifly noting how the coughing is a rather new, unfortuante development. Must be a chest cold, he thinks. 

Sasha slides against the wall until she reaches the doorway. “Right, well, you’re clearly contagious, and I’m going to ask Jon if I can work on last week’s statement developments from home until I can come to work and breathe in less,” she pauses, waving one hand about, “sickly air.”

“Hang on,” Tim starts after her, interest piqued, “there’s development?” He stumbles down the hall, trying hard to ignore the heat prickling at the back of his neck. “Since when?” 

Ignoring him, Sasha offers two courtsey knocks on the archive door before opening it, stepping far to the side when Tim staggers in after her, tugging at his shirt collar.

“Jon, can I work from home for the next few days?” 

The annoyance painted across Jon’s face ins’t unfamilar, yet Sasha’s unfazed by his sour mood. She opens her mouth to defend her question, closing it quickly when Tim doubles over into another coughing fit that has her wincing but gesturing toward him.

“I see,” Jon mutters slowly, one brow arched, when Tim catches his breath. “Tim, shouldn’t you be the one-”

“-what’s the development?” Tim interrupts as he unconciosuly pops a few buttons of his shirt collar loose. 

Jon mutters through information, finger still poised tightly atop the pause button on his recorder, and Tim nods along with his words, mind already jumping from past articles that have come up during his follow-up research.

“Right, yeah, I remember that! Let me print some news articles, and I’ll be back!” He spins on his heel, blinking through the haze that flicks across his vision, and slips out of the doorway, eager to revist the articles as this statement’s just been bugging him ever since Jon assigned it to him. 

“If you think you can effectively do your work from home, I’ll allow it. The last thing we need is the entire staff sick.”

Smiling, Sasha claps her hands together and bows her head. “Thank you!”

***

Begrudgingly, Jon calls it after watching Tim detoriate for the last four hours. He’d been inclined to ignore Tim’s coughing and sneezing as they’ve fallen down a rather complicated hole regarding last week’s statement, one both thought was put to rest after hitting walls from every angle, but, when Tim, who’s already shed his coat and sweater and has his sleeves rolled up despite the unforgiving chill of the archive, mutters an absent complaint about how oddly warm it is, he slips his glasses from his eyes with a sigh.

“I think it’s time you go, Tim.” 

“Sorry, what?” Tim asks, absently fanning his face, eyes glued to his laptop. He doesn’t hear Jon slip from his chair, but he does feel the almost icy brush of knuckles against his cheek. He freezes, eyes darting from the low glow of the screen to Jon, who’s frowning deeper than usual. 

“Jon, what-”

“-You’ve got quite a temperature.” 

Tim presses his palm to his forehead, grimacing at the damp heat. “I guess that would explain why I’m sweltering.” Taking a mental account to how he’s currently feeling falls just short of like absolute shit. He nods when Jon reclaims his seat.

“I’ll leave at lunch.” 

Jon spares a glance at his watch before extending his arm out to show Tim the late afternoon time. “I believe it’s well past the time you typically leave for lunch.” 

“You know what time I leave for lunch?” Tim teases around a few grating coughs. He heaves himself to his feet, feeling every inch of every muscle protest through cracks and pops. 

“You aren’t exactly quiet about it,” Jon points out flatly, and Tim laughs even though he knows as the bubble of amusement swells in his chest that laughing will be a mistake. He grips the back of the chair he had pulled up to Jon’s desk as a coughing fit rips through him, tugging at his lungs. He can feel Jon’s hand find his back, a tad awkward, flat palm against trembling muscles, and when he catches his breath, he waves away the oddly unreadable look Jon’s shooting him. 

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving. No need to fret, boss.” He closes his laptop and tucks it under one arm.

“I’m not fretting,” Jon says a little too quickly, and Tim smirks as he shuffles to the door, coat dragging on the floor at his side for he can’t find the strength to lift his arms. 

“Course not,” Tim nods over his shoulder. “I’ll be back-”

“-when you’re well.”

“When I’m well,” Tim parrots back, unable to keep the smile from his lips. 

“Completely well, Tim.”

“100%,” Tim agrees, offering a final nod before he exits down the hall, and Jon begins moving papers away from his desk to clear space for his next statement, unfazed by the few sneezes that slip through. 

***

Martin tries to pass his concern off as mere curiosity; however, the words still slip too quick from frowning lips, something he just can’t seem to help, especially when Jon sneezes for the eighth time while making tea.

“Alright, Jon?” 

Jon hums in muted acknowledgement and offers a curt nod as he slowly turns around, fingers wrapped tightly around his steaming mug of tea.

“It’s just that,” Martin presses, aware that he’s approaching a potentially dangerous territory, “you don’t normally take tea after 3 p.m.” 

Sighing, Jon moves the mug up to his mouth and sucks in the steam. “I don’t have a tea schedule, Martin.”

Martin winces. “Well, there’s also that...”

Irritation pulls at Jon’s brows, furrowing them, and his eyes mirror as such. “There’s what, Martin?”

“Your voice,” Martin tries, huffing slightly. “You sound very congested, and you’ve been sneezing non-stop since you walked in here.” To further push his point, Jon carefully sets his mug down on the counter behind him to sneeze sharply into the crook of his arm, three, harsh times that have Martin standing from his chair. 

He holds a hand out toward Jon, just short of landing on Jon’s arm. The urge to provide any semblance of comfort is overwhelming, but he lets his hand drop to his side when Jon brings his face forward with a soft sniffle and blindly reaches behind him for his mug.

“I am fine, Martin. There’s no need to dote.” 

“I heard Tim went home ill,” Martin crosses his arms, carefully watching as Jon all but hugs the hot mug to his chest as if pleading with the warmth to cover his entire body, which, Martin’s quick to note, is trembling ever-so slightly. 

“I’m sure everyone heard his rather dramatic exit.” 

“Do you think, perhaps, you’ve caught his cold?” Martin tries for a gentle tone, but Jon scoffs anyway.

“Of course not. It’s just chilly in the archives.” Jon shivers slightly at this, and Martin frowns, eyes wide and colored in conflcted worry, and he slips his cardigan off. 

“Here.” 

Jon makes to protest, but Martin’s already draping the cardigan over his shoulders. He steps in front of Jon to tug and pull at the cardigan until it’s covering enough to satisfy him, and Jon’s nose twitches before he can step away. He snags the mug from Jon’s hand while Jon falls into another sneezing fit that truly sounds painful and leaves Jon lightly gasping once he’s recovered.

“Am I understanding correctly that Tim’s infected my entire staff?” 

Elias’s voice is both surprising and unwelcome, and both jump and whip around to the break room doorway to see Elias frowning at the two of them, arms crossed, lips taut. 

“It’s handled,” Jon grumbles at the same time Martin blurts out, “Jon’s sick.” 

Martin can physically feel Jon tense up at his side, and he doesn’t need to spare a glance to know that Jon’s gritting his teeth hard behind neutral eyes. 

“I can see that.” Elias is slow to study the two, dragging his eyes deliberately from one face to the other, stopping on Martin, and for a moment, Martin kind of wishes the floor will open up and swallow him whole. 

“Martin, you’ll see Jon out and make sure that he and Tim recover quickly. There is work to be done.”

“Elias, that’s not-”

“-I wasn’t speaking to you, Jon.” 

They watch Elias leave, and the tension coating the air is almost suffocating. Martin’s almost considering that perhaps he should have just kept quiet as he watches Jon start out of the break room. He makes to move, to call after him, to apologize, but then Jon wiggles rather ungracefully until he has both arms slipped into the oversized cardigan, and he hugs it tightly to himself. 

He’ll take it, Martin thinks, as he follows after Jon to gather his things. 

***

“Er, Martin. Jon.” Tim’s leaning against the doorframe in only a pair of boxers, his hair a tossled mess after being rudely pulled from sleep by the doorbell. “What’s-” he starts, mouth forming a round ‘oh’ when Jon falls into a sneezing fit at Martin’s side. 

“Elias said I should make sure you both recover quickly, and I figured it might be easier if we’re all in once place,” Martin starts quickly, hand tightening around the store bags in his hand. “I know I should have called first, but-”

“-This is ridiculous,” Jon mutters, sniffling loudly. “Sorry to bother you, Tim. We’ll be leaving now, _Martin_.” He makes to turn, to stalk back to Martin’s car, but then Tim calls out to him, and he pauses, one brow arched, and turns back around. 

“Hang on. You can stay, boss. I owe you that much, at least, since this is my fault.” 

“That’s really not necessary, Tim.” 

“No offense, Jon, but you look about as bad as I feel, so just come on in here so I can crawl back to bed and be miserable.” Tim turns to cough harshly into the crook of his arm, his fingers tightening around his doorframe, and then he’s being ushered into the house with Martin’s blessedly cold hand on the small of his back. 

“Wow, Tim, have you taken anything for this fever? You’re burning up!”

Jon watches the two, eyes tired, annoyed, and then an icy breeze whips around him, slipping through his coat and Martin’s cardigan, and he shudders, quickly shuffling inside and kicking the door shut. He drags his eyes around Tim’s house, eyes zeroing in on a couch that looks infinitely more comfortable than the cot at work he’s taken to on and off the last few weeks. 

He sheds his coat, dropping it clumisly on the back of a chair, but opts to keep the cardigan on because... His mind supplies soft, comfortable, warm, but he shoves all aside, supplying practical instead. He’s sick, so it only makes sense to keep warm, at least, that’s what he tells himself as he sinks down onto the couch. 

He’s nodding off beofre he means to. He can briefly hear Martin calling out to him, warning him not to go to sleep until he’s taken some medicine, but the exhaustion he’s been shoving aside is encompassing him, surrounding him in a cold wave. He sudders, pulling the cardigan tighter around him, and drifts off. 

***

Tim slips into the kitchen, smiling fondly when he spots Martin sleeping at his table, his head pillowed atop his folded arms. Though, his smile falters when he hears Martin cough lightly, and he inches closer to see Martin shivering ever-so slightly. 

Guilt coloring his eyes, he places a hand to Martin’s shoulder, giving it a light shake. “Martin-”

Martin jerks awake, and Tim pulls his hand back with a sharp gasp that gves away to a few, harsh coughs. 

“Oh, Tim, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Are you alright?” 

“Are you?” Tim cocks a brow, leaning forward to brush the back of his hand to Martin’s cheek. “You feel a little warm.” 

“I am feeling a little under the weather,” Martin admits, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips as he gets to his feet. “But, it’s fine. You and Jon need me.”

“Martin, you can rest. Actually, it’s my house, so I insist you do so.” 

“Tim,” Martin presses, moving to the tea kettle, “I’m fine. It’s nothing I can’t-”

“-Martin.” 

Jumping, Martin whips around to see Jon shuffling toward him, hair a mess of long, loose curls, and skin far paler than Martin’s comfortable with. “Jon! What are you-”

He stops when Jon’s cold hand smooths across his forehead, and he can’t help the shudder that shoots up his spine, one he’ll peg on the low-grade fever he’s running and not on his fluttering heart. 

“You are warm,” Jon mutters, sniffling quiety. “You should rest. It’s late.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“-Despite what Tim says, we aren’t actually dying, Martin.”

“Still here,” Tim mutters, staring flatly at Jon. “But,” he adds, pulling a softer gaze toward Martin, “Jon’s right. I’ll grab some spare blankets for the couch.” 

“Oh, but that’s where Jon’s resting. I can take the recliner-”

“-Martin,” Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The couch is large enough. It’s fine.” He reasons, once more, that it’s practical, that the couch is better than hearing Martin whine about a sore back, but underneath practiced practically, he’s looking forward to having Martin’s natural warmth so close to him. Only because of the fever, he tells himself. 

“If you’re sure...” Martin mutters, hugging himself, and he follows Jon back into the living room, where Tim’s spreading out a comforter over the couch. 

“Right, so that should do it,” Tim says, hand smoothing over the blanket. “I’ll be in the bedroom if either of you need anything, but do try and wait until morning. I think we could all use the sleep.” Tim slips out of the room, a small smile creeping at his lips when he hears Jon and Martin’s muffled arguing on who sleeps where. 

“Jon, really, I’ll just take the recliner-” 

“-Martin, just...” Jon sighs, rubbing at his temples, “lie down here.” He points, and Martin mutters a polite “excuse me” as he slips past Jon and slowly drops onto the couch where Jon is pointing, his back pressed against the back of the couch. 

“Jon, where will you-” Martin’s words sputter to a stop when Jon slips onto the couch beside him, his back flush against Martin’s chest, lean bones molding perfectly in place. 

“Jon!” 

“Oh, don’t yell, Martin,” Jon drags out, eyes already slipping closed. “It makes the most sense, so do try and rest. Quietly.” 

“Alright,” Martin mutters, swallowing thickly around a lump in his throat, and though it takes time, the consistent tick of the clock seeminly mocking him, he begins to relax when Jon’s breathing evens out against him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Idk how to write more than two people in a fic, and I really dk how to write more than one sick person, so I'm sorry this is trash. 
> 
> (Come say hi on tumblr! @toosicktoocare)


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